


Cut and Fade

by dietplainlite



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cut Scene, F/M, Gen, Outtake, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 05:08:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dietplainlite/pseuds/dietplainlite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An outtake from All You Ever Wanted at Just the Wrong Time.  What Molly does while Sherlock sleeps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cut and Fade

**Author's Note:**

> All You Ever Wanted at Just the Wrong Time was originally going to be a much longer story. When I decided to cut it where I did, I was left with this bit. I discovered it again in my original draft and decided to dust it off and publish.

Her mug of tea goes cold on the side table as the last bit of sunlight recedes. The flat's enormous window faces east, but the color play on the buildings and trees as the sun set were magnificent. She still hasn't been able to get her bearings enough to figure out where they are, which is unfortunate, since there is nothing but tea in, and she supposes they will have to eat at some point.

She's just managed to work the last few snarls from her hair. Falling asleep with damp hair had not been a good idea, but nothing about today really had been.

She had awoken with a start an hour earlier, disoriented and vaguely hoping that everything had been a bizarre dream. But her unfamiliar surroundings and the man snoring softly next to her made it clear that this was her reality. Easing out of bed, she was amazed at how much her muscles ached. How long had they been sleeping? At the door, she looked back at him. He lay on his back, mouth slightly open, sprawled out like a child. It had taken him a long time to fall asleep, and she hadn't let herself succumb until she'd heard his breathing grow slow and steady.

The view from the window had stopped her cold. There was nothing particularly picturesque about the surroundings, but the light softened everything so completely that she thought she might still be asleep. Was it morning or evening? She found her phone and verified it was evening. There were 27 missed calls, the number reminding her that there was a world out there in which almost everyone who cared about Sherlock and everyone who didn't thought that he was dead.

"I'll deal with it in a bit," she said to herself. "Tea first. Please let there be tea."

There had been everything for tea, and nothing else. At least who ever had prepared the flat had their priorities straight, but it worried her nonetheless. Mug in hand, she'd settled into one of the large white arm chairs and dealt with her phone. Most of the calls were repeats, and there were ten messages. Mike Stamford, once. Her mother, once. Greg Lestrade once. Five different reporters. A DI she didn't know from the Met, twice. All with the same theme. "Where are you? I need to speak with you. Please call." A moment of panic lead her to turning off the GPS capability on her phone. Then she'd sat and watched the light fade over a city that was unfamiliar for more reasons than not just knowing where the bloody hell she was.

And what the bloody hell is she supposed to do? She walks back to the kitchen to brew more tea that she probably won't drink. But she indulges in the ritual, any small bit of normalcy she can cling to. She feels utterly cut off, as though the flat is a space ship, hovering over the earth but just to observe. Separate. Isolated. There is no telly, so she has no idea what the story is or how big it's gotten. No WiFi, and she doesn't have a smart phone. Can't leave because she can't leave him alone. Can't order anything in because she doesn't know the address. She has the urge to throw her mug against the wall.

This kind of anger is not like her, and she realizes that a large part of her anger is at Sherlock. Earlier she had thought badly of Mycroft for not expecting this kind of reaction in his brother, but she is just as guilty. She had thought he would be in control, as always. Truth be told she had never thought it would come to this in the first place. He had told her that it was the last resort, and she'd had such utter faith in him that she'd believed there was no way he'd have to go through with his backup plan, until the backup plan was actually happening. And now he's fallen to pieces and she has only the necessary information and it's just not enough. Her hands curl around her mug so hard that her knuckles turn white. Then the prepaid phone rings.

"Hello?" Molly says tentatively.

"Ah, Miss Hooper. I was so pleased to hear that you arrived safely. Please put my brother on, there are urgent matters we need to discuss."

"Oh, I'm sorry but he's sleeping."

"He's never needed much sleep, feel free to wake him. "

"Erm. It's just that, he's not really—well."

"I would imagine that you should have been able to patch him up satisfactorily."

"Oh, no. He's just fine, physically. He's just. He's not really himself."

There is a long pause before he speaks again.

"Please elaborate, Miss Hooper."

"He's only said three words since, um, everything happened. But it's not because he's thinking. Before he finally fell asleep he was alternating between near catatonia and absolute hysteria. I don't know how he'll be when he wakes up but I think he should sleep as long as he can."

Another interminable pause.

Molly sighs. "Has he ever reacted like this before. To trauma?"

"Not since he was very young. He will recover, as always. You must stay with him until he does."

"Of course I want to help but—."

"I think you'll find that your life is not something you will want to return to for the time being."

"What's happening?"

"I'll do everything in my power to protect your job, Miss Hooper. Your mother will be appeased and I will make sure that your cat is taken care of. Is there anything else that needs tending to?"

Molly feels very small, her life having been summed up by this man in three items on a checklist.

"I do need to know where we are. There's no food."

Mycroft gives her the address. They are ten miles from St. Bart's. She thanks him and it takes her a moment to realize he has already disconnected.

She finds a telephone directory. It's been ages since she's ordered food this way but finally finds a promising restaurant in the neighborhood.

Then she realizes that she has no idea what Sherlock likes to eat.

Then she realizes that it probably doesn't matter, anyway.

She orders. She sits down and waits, looking out the window and wishing she could see the stars.


End file.
